First love
by Celebne
Summary: Ficlet about a young Faramir, who's falling in love for the first time. Bookverse.


Title: first love

Genre: Love/Drama

Rating: 12

Character: Faramir

Content: Faramir falls in love for the first time…

Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Prof. Tolkien!

**First Love**

Boromir was running up the spiral staircases which lead to his brother's room. He almost forgot to knock at the door. After doing so he quickly entered the room, before Faramir could answer. Boromir pulled his black hair back and looked around to find Faramir. He was sitting at his escritoire directly beneath the arched window. He was holding his head with his hands, staring dreamily out of the window.

"Eh, Faramir, get up, father is waiting for supper!" Boromir called.

The gangling boy rose, smiling at his elder brother.

"I was just writing a poem for Melian!" he said enthusiastically," what do you think, should I put it into a small wooden box and put a nice bow around it?"

He was pointing at a scarlet red ribbon, lying on his bed next to a golden thistle.

"Oh Faramir, you are a dead loss!" Boromir sighed.

Faramir passed him the paper scroll, his grey eyes sparkling full of hope. Boromir read it with raised eyebrows.

"Is it good? Do you think Melian is going to like it?" he asked.

"As you know, I hate poetry "his brother answered, smiling sadly. "But, I'm afraid, if you don't put on your blue tunic for dinner right now, father will get really angry. And, I guess, a sandstorm in Haradwaith would be harmless, compared..!

Denethor was already sitting in the dining-hall of the citadel , was waiting for his sons to come. His heart was beating faster when he saw both his sons entering, and he watched them proudly. Boromir had become a grown up and had already done some great deeds during his first campaigns. And even Faramir wasn't a child anymore. Lately you could see the first signs of a beard spreading over his lips and cheeks-a definite sign of becoming an adult. Wistfully Denethor remembered his dead wife, who didn't have the chance to see her sons growing up. He tried to get rid of these depressing thoughts to talk to his sons.

"My sons, I wish you to have a glass wine with me this evening. Now, that you are almost grown up, Faramir, you should try some of my good red wine!"

Faramir was appalled. Just this evening he wanted to meet Melian in the gardens to have a walk in the moonlight. He was waiting for this meeting desperately. Helplessly he glanced at his brother, who knew what was going on. Faramir had told him about meeting the beautiful maid. Boromir cleared his throat and addressed his father, whose smile was frozen on his face. The Steward sensed that Faramir wasn't too happy about his invitation. How on earth could he dare to refuse! He was so disrespectful and ingrate…!

"Father, maybe we could just have the wine once again without Faramir", he suggested cautious.

"And why should we want to do that, my dear son?" he asked, glowering at his first born.

Faramir rose from his chair, sweating all over his body. "Father, I ask you for permission to meet a maid I adore for a very long time. I wrote a poem for her, which I would love to give to her tonight!"

Denethor furrowed his brow and looked at his youngest. Then, with a milder expression in his eyes and a smile on the face he answered deliberately.

"Alright, my son, you may meet your maid, then, for I'm not a barbarian, and even I have been young and in love, once. Faramir was overwhelmed by luck and thanked his father effusively. Finally they started to take a meal.

Melian was already seated on one of the marble lawn seats in the gardens. She was a fourteen year old, decent girl, daughter of a nobleman from Minas Tirith. She was wearing an emerald green dress which suited her plaited, raven black hair very well. She was fond of Faramir for a very long time. Inwardly she was wondering sometimes how it would be if he kissed her. Finally she saw him coming down the cobbled street. She could see him smiling from a distance and her heart started beating very fast. She was trembling slightly .In his hands he was holding a little box with a bright ribbon. Faramir felt similarly: When he looked in her amber eyes, he had a feeling of butterflies in his stomach. The young man knelt down in front of her solemnly.

"May I present you this, lovely maid?"

"How can I ever thank you, my prince?"She whispered, turning slightly pink.

Faramir passed her the little box and she opened it cautiously. Inside she found the paper scroll with the poem and the golden thistle. These were very rare plants in Gondor and hence a valuable treasure. With a gentle stroke Melian touched the thistle, cautious not to break it. Then she addressed herself to the poem, admiring the fine face of his writing. Moved to tears she read his poem. She almost started crying. She never read something more romantic and gorgeous than this.

"Oh Faramir" she whispered. "You are an accomplished poet! Is there anything I can give you in return?"

"Would you like to come for a walk with me, now that the moon is shining?"

"There's nothing I wish more, my prince!", she answered happily.

She rose and holding hands they wandered around the nocturnal gardens. While looking at the dark sky above them, Melian saw a falling star. Cheering she pointed it out to Faramir

"We may wish something, now!" Faramir told her. Both of them closed there eyes to come up with a wish, but neither of them sensed that there were wishing the same. They opened their eyes and found themselves staring at each other breathlessly. Faramir looked deep into Melians bright eyes and could almost read what she was feeling in her heart. Cautiously he bent forwards and kissed her gently. For a long time they stand in the darkness, caressing each other. But as a decent man Faramir had to accompany Melian back to her parent's house only one hour later.

It was not granted to them to meet again. Only a few days later Melian fall very ill and died soon. For many years on the day of her death a golden thistle was laid on her grave.


End file.
